


Bartholomew's Ashes

by WhenFandomStrikes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I know I am a monster, John's in Danger, M/M, Maybe I will get back to this some day and save John, Pre-Reichenbach, Sort of abandoned, i can't believe i'm actually posting this, sorry - Freeform, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9274469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenFandomStrikes/pseuds/WhenFandomStrikes
Summary: Moriarty promised to "burn the heart" out of Sherlock. Who knew he would take things so literally. Sherlock wakes to find Mrs. Hudson in a panic, St. Bart's on fire, and John missing. Sherlock Holmes must use every tool and person at his disposal to find out what happened to John Watson before Moriarty is finished with his game. All the players are on the board... and it's Sherlock's move.





	1. Empty

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a BAJILLION years ago and... well... I have yet to end it. There are ten chapters, nine written. If y'all like it, I'll keep posting. Let me know if I should get this done.

They were running again. They were always running. John was certain he should be satisfied with his current fitness level, given all of the bloody running. How Sherlock could have once been a cocaine-addicted smoker, all while managing to run all over London, was beyond John.

This time they chased a jewel thief. The gawky, skinny, pock-marked man had taken the time to organise and hit certain shops in the downtown area, creating a pattern that was easily deciphered by the beautiful mind of the world’s only consulting detective. Easily deciphered meant easily predictable. Truth be told, there was little no to effort put forth by the mad genius. The idiot had hit shops in the order they were listed in the directory. 

Obvious. Dull. Unimaginative.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, along with Sergeant Sally Donavan, were sprinting up one end of the alleyway while Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson barrelled up the other. There were police lights flashing from all angles giving the chase the look of some action movie taking place in a night club. The criminal didn’t have enough time to decide which of the pairs looked more threatening before he was tackled to the ground by the petite Sergeant, Donavan easily straddling the man’s back and cuffing him promptly.

“You...” Donovan grunted, pulling the thief’s arms behind his back, “Don’t have to say anything.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll want to say plenty.” Came the deep baritone drawl of Sherlock as he and John cantered up beside the two Yarders with minimal huffing. “Won’t you, Reggie?”

“Stuff it, freak.” Donavan snapped quietly over her shoulder before turning back to the thief and continuing in a quick puff of breath, speaking louder this time so that she would overpower Sherlock if he tried to interrupt her again. “But it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“Alright, let’s get him out of here.” Bellowed Lestrade who stood behind Sally with his hands on his hips, his lungs heaving from overuse.A few more officers trotted up beside the foursome to help Donovan escort the prisoner away. They heaved the freckled man up to his feet and pulled him towards the source of the police car light show created in the alleyway.

“Well, good on us then?” Huffed John who was leaning against the rough metal of a skip, trying his best to catch his breath as his eyes tracked the departure of the most recent consumer of the consulting detective and his blogger’s attention. 

“You couldn’t have waited for me and Donavan before bombing off?” Lestrade groaned, eyeing the detective with an annoyed glare.

“No time.” Sherlock quipped smoothly, his eyes following the path Donavan and the other two officers took. “I know you’re not the sharpest, but I figured you would have the common sense to follow me. Really, Lestrade, I shouldn’t have to explain everything.”

“Sherlock.” Came a warning tone from John who was now standing straight and a few steps behind the tall brunette.

“What?” Asked the detective, whipping around to look at his friend. “It’s not my fault Scotland Yard is full of high-functioning gorillas who have to have every detail explained to them. It’s tedious.”

“Oi!” Lestrade bellowed, frowning at the back of Sherlock’s head. “I’m not a gorilla. And you’re lucky I called you in on the case to begin with.”

“Oh please!” Those bright blue-grey eyes spun around once more to scowl at the Detective-Inspector. “You didn’t have a single lead and wouldn’t be able to discern your rear from elbow if it wasn’t for me.”

“Sherlock!” John bit in again, this time with less warning and more scolding. “Greg was kind enough to let us in on this case. Now stop being a tit and say thank you. _Christ_.”

With those words, Sherlock rolled and then closed his eyes and angrily breathed through his nose a few times.

“ _Fine._ ” He spat harshly through his clenched teeth, sounding like a belligerent child who clearly did not get their way. Sherlock opened his eyes to _glower_ at the D.I. and spit out the last two words with utter disdain. “Thank. You.”

Lestrade had mustered all of his strength to keep his composure and instead of laughing out loud, which he really wanted to do, he just offered Sherlock a bright smirk before leaning around the taller man to look at John.

“You’re training him well.”

“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock snapped again, whirling around so that his long coat bellowed behind him. He brushed passed John and was gone before the doctor and Lestrade burst into a fit of giggles.

 

0oOo0

 

John knew the evening ahead was going to be horrid, but it was well worth the repercussions just for the opportunity to tease his flatmate a bit. The cab-ride home was tense as the detective had taken it upon himself to sulk the whole ride home. It didn’t help that John relentlessly ribbed him with remarks about Pavlov, dog-training techniques and the proper uses of a clicker.

By the time the two men had returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was well beyond fuming. He entered the flat in a fury, John chuckling softly behind him.

“C’mon, Sherlock. You know I’m just joking.” The doctor grinned, watching the taller man throw his coat over the door hook and rip his scarf from his throat. “I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly.”

“Come off it, John.” Sherlock snapped, frowning at the other man before taking three very purposeful steps forward to glare down at his flatmate. “Of course you meant something by it. Did it feel good, having the upper hand, laughing at my expense? Perhaps you would like me to pant when you snap your fingers or heel when commanded?”

John’s gleeful smile immediately fell from his lips. He suddenly became aware that perhaps he’d ribbed just a little too much.

“Hey, no... No. Don’t be like that.” He said, stepping forward with his arms wide and palms facing the detective. “It was just a harmless tease between mates. I didn’t think it bothered you that much.”

“It’s doesn’t bother me!” Sherlock growled sharply.

“It obviously does.” John pointed out, canting his head.

“And don’t try to pacify me with your feigned surrender. I’m no fool, John.” The doctor let his hands fall back to his side and Sherlock spun in another small huff of air, reflexively reaching out to the Stradivarius laying atop it’s open case and stuffing it against the crook of his neck. “Now go away.”

“Hey.” John started gently, wanting to apologise, but he was cut off abruptly by the loud and ear-piercing screech of Sherlock’s violin. When the noise stopped, the detective spoke again.

“I said go away, John. You know how much I despise repeating myself.”

“Fine. Okay.” John sighed, knowing that there was no getting through to Sherlock when he was in this sort of mood. He turned and made his way up the stairs, gritting his teeth as that screeching string instrument continued to wail.

 

0oOo0

 

The violin was played well into the night. _Played_ being the operative word in John’s mind. More like _mutilated_ , but it wasn’t as if the former soldier wasn’t used to it. He’d been woken plenty of times by the sound Sherlock’s musical temper tantrums. It wasn’t as if the man _couldn’t_ play. He most certainly could. John had heard Sherlock pull the most beautiful sounds out of the instrument, but only when he truly _wanted to_. It was only customary when the detective fell into his darker moods that he would claw and grind at those supposedly sweet strings and John had slept through bombings and gunfire... A sickly screeching from a dying cat was nothing compared to an IED explosion.

The next morning found John rising early. Even though he was no longer an army man, he couldn’t bring himself to break the habit of waking at five in the morning to begin his day. The point of having lie-in’s was a bit moot anyways, given he got little sleep with Sherlock banging around with his experiments, tantrums and violin at all hours.

He had picked up a double at St. Bartholomew's, seeing as how he could always use the money. Honestly, when would Sherlock just get over himself and take the compensation people so willingly offered for their cases? He was actually looking forward to getting out of the flat for the day, knowing full-well that Sherlock was probably still angry with him and a day spent in a hospital helping people would certainly do wonders for his ego.

John crawled out of bed, mindlessly tucking his feet into his slippers and pulling his big, fluffy dressing gown over his shoulders. He made his way down the stairs to the first landing and continued into the kitchen, putting on the kettle before he headed further down to the front door to pick up the paper. 

This was all routine. Same thing every morning as it had been for almost eighteen months. The only thing that ever changed was the location of a mysterious and insufferable brunette whose whereabouts were never confirmed until John had his tea in one hand and newspaper tucked in the other. 

Once entering the main room, the doctor’s eyes fluttered to the sofa.

Empty.

One glance over his shoulder and down the hall confirmed Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed. Well, maybe his morning might be quiet. 

_‘At least he’s sleeping... I hope he’s sleeping.’_  

Thankfully, John was able to drink his tea, read his paper, shower and dress to leave without a single bitter remark or angry deduction. It was an all-around pleasant start to his day. 

With one more look around the flat, John Watson grabbed his coat and set off for work with a slight spring in his step.

 

0oOo0

 

Sherlock was awoken to a hard pounding on his bedroom door. He blinked slightly and rolled over, moaning lightly about going away and obedient dogs when he realised that is wasn’t his flatmate’s voice piercing through the wood, but the frantic cries of their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. 

Eyes popping open, he vaulted from his bed with unusual grace and quickly decided that his naked form would probably not be calmly accepted by the aged woman. He pulled on a pair of well-worn pyjama bottoms and angrily flung open the door, hoping that this disturbance was well worth interrupting what little sleep he ever gathered.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, what it is?” He grumbled, towering over the smaller woman. Before she spoke, Sherlock’s eyes quickly ran over the form of the woman in the doorway. 

_‘Flustered. Tissues in hand. Pupils dilated. Wet eyes and face. Been crying. Flushed appearance. Heavy, laboured breathing. Slouching, indicating discomfort. Light sheen of sweat on the brow.’_  

“You’re afraid.” He said simply, deducing his landlady in moments. 

“It’s been all over the telly!” She said, her voice sounding horrified. “Sherlock! It’s terrible.” 

Without another word, she grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and pulled him forward, dragging him out into the main room of the flat. She only let go to turn away and flick on the television. 

“What are you going on about?” Sherlock asked testily, still grumpy from sleep or lack-there-of. It wasn’t like he had gone to bed the previous evening. Mrs. Hudson didn’t say a word as she pointed to the images on the screen. 

It was a newscast. A female anchor that Sherlock somewhat recognised spoke into the microphone held before her, a stoic look on her face. Behind her was a building that was clearly engulfed in flames. The building was about as familiar as the newswoman and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 

“Really, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t have time for the silly dramas that you’ve interested yourself in.” Sherlock drawled, glaring at her instead of the telly. He made a motion to turn away when the words of the newscaster finally broke through his sleep-addled brain. 

_“... it is assumed that the fire started in the morgue, spreading up into the clinic. Police and firemen are still working to contain the blaze. Doctors and patients are still being accounted for. So far there are three confirmed dead and over a dozen injured. The staff here at Saint Bartholomew's are now working double duty, caring for their patients and now taking care of their own...”_  

Sherlock spun around so fast that he almost completely lost his balance. Now his full attention was on the image before him. 

_‘Building badly damaged. Dozens of doctors and nurses running around, caring for the fallen and injured. Police hollering out for bystanders to stay back. Bright orange flames. More than a quarter of the building blackened. Smoke everywhere.’_

“John!” Sherlock bellowed, still staring at the screen before he moved like lightening, abandoning the telly and Mrs. Hudson to bound up the flight of stairs that led to the second bedroom of 221B. He opened the door with a loud clatter, quickly scanning the room. 

Empty. 

“John!” Sherlock called again, taking to the stairs once more, nearly leaping down them by fours. He was met by Mrs. Hudson who looked even more shaken than she had when she’d woken the brunette. 

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” She cried, reaching out and gripping Sherlock’s bare forearms. “He’s not home, Sherlock! He’s not here!”

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked, a scathing feeling rising up in his throat. It was panic. He knew it was panic, but he shoved the useless emotion aside to focus his attention on the facts around him.  

_‘John’s coat missing. Paper on his chair. Keys gone from the Queen’s ashtray.’_

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know...” Mrs. Hudson sobbed, leaning ever closer to the detective until she collapsed in a fit and pressed herself against the torso in front of her. Her tears were uncomfortably wet against Sherlock’s skin and he tensed slightly at the feeling. Her words came out muffled and her breath puffed against the light downing of hair on his chest. “He left early. Had on a tie on under his jumper... I know... I know he picks up shifts there, Sherlock. Tell me he’s not there! Tell me!” 

Mrs. Hudson pulled her damp face away to look up at the detective, her eyes wide and hopeful. Sherlock let her go and stepped passed her, his mind suddenly moving at it’s full speed. He reached into his coat hanging by the door and quickly pulled out his mobile. There on the screen, blaring in white, shorthand text-speak surrounded in a glossy dark blue word-bubble were the cruelest words Sherlock could imagine.

**_“Gone 2 St Barts. Wrking dbl. Sry 4 ystrday. Will get Angelos 4 dnnr. JW”_ **


	2. The Jumper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to St. Bart's to see what happened and makes a startling discovery.

The scene at St. Bart’s was a clustered mess of people screaming for loved-ones, doctors running about trying to help both their patients and each other, police trying their best to keep people away from the smouldering bits of building behind them and firemen scrambling to put out the new blazes that kept cropping up when they weren’t looking.

Sherlock stood at the edge of this chaos, sharp eyes darting over the scene. He saw people he vaguely recognised from traveling the halls of the hospital, but no one who would acknowledge him outright. He held his breath, trying his best to tune out the strangled screams of people looking for the lost, shouting of officer’s safety commands and calling of doctors for medical supplies. 

The longer he looked, the faster his heart raced.

_‘Where is he? He has to be here. His text said he would be here.’_

His eyes flicked over every person, quickly eliminating those who didn’t fall into his search parameters.

_‘Too tall. Female. Female. Dark hair. Too short. Wrong stance. Too blond. Brunette. Brunette. Too fat.’_

As his eyes moved, Sherlock became more and more aware that he was running out of people. At least, he was running out of _live_ people. Reluctantly, his eyes moved to another part of the chaos. Paramedics and doctors were laying limp and scorched bodies side-by-side, cataloguing the fallen before moving to retrieve whoever else they could pull from the embers of the hospital.

Sherlocks eyes passed over those unmoving forms efficiently enough, finally breathing when he’d eliminated everyone in that collection as well.

_‘If he’s not helping, not being treated and not dead... where is he?’_

The detective stepped forward, moving closer to the madness and pushing himself rudely passed other people who were trying to figure out what had happened to those they cared about. 

_‘Pitiful people. Use your eyes.’_

Once to the edge of the police barrier, Sherlock had a better view of what was going on. The firemen were still doing their best to contain the flames, The massive fire from the telly was now just smouldering embers in comparison. A number of uniformed officers from the Met stood barricading and blocking off the crazed public, keeping them at a distance. Looking beyond a rather surly-looking bobby, Sherlock caught a glimpse of familiar salt and pepper hair in the collection of detectives moving about.

“Lestrade!” He called out, but the older detective didn’t respond. He was too consumed with trying to control the masses while barking out orders to his team.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock tried again, but once more gained no acknowledgment. Finally, he resorted to his last option.

“GREG!”

The Detective Inspector turned and caught the sight of someone he wished he hadn’t. Standing on the edge of the police barricade were a pair of bright, blue-grey eyes demanding his immediate attention. He honestly didn’t need this too, but before he could roll his eyes and groan, he truly _looked_.

Sherlock stood there in his familiar imposing coat, but underneath were a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms, an old t-shirt and on his feet were plain, black slippers. His hair was unkempt, curls wild and going every which way and did he have five-o-clock shadow? This was not how Sherlock Holmes left his flat. Sherlock Holmes was always clean-cut, well dressed and impeccable. The man that hung on the edge of the police barricade was decidedly not impeccable... he was a complete mess. Greg was quickly reminded of a time spent years ago, shoving a similar-looking man out of his office while bellowing something about addiction and getting help.

The world’s only consulting detective may not put much stock in Gregory Lestrade’s deductive skills, but the Detective-Inspector didn’t need to be genius to see that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t there for his own interest in the burning building. He was there for something else that immediately demanded his presence and brought him out of his flat without care for his appearance. 

“Where is he?” Sherlock shouted once he had the Detective-Inspector’s attention. Lestrade didn’t need to ask who the brunette was asking about. He looked around quickly and then shrugged, making his way over to where Sherlock was standing.

“I haven’t seen him.” He said calmly. “Are you sure he’s here?”  
  
“Of course I’m sure.” Sherlock snapped, making a move to slip beyond the police barrier.

“I’m sorry, Sir. No civilians through here.” Started the bobby, but Lestrade stepped between the two and held up a hand.

“It’s alright, Jackson. Let him through.” The Detective-Inspector confirmed, pulling the wooden horse labeled SCOTLAND YARD aside to allow Sherlock to enter the scene.

“You can take a look around, but don’t get in anyone’s way or I’ll kick you out.” Lestrade said quickly, before turning his back to the brunette adding a quick ‘I mean it’ over his shoulder.

Sherlock only wasted a second watching the Lestrade leave before his eyes travelled the scene again, glad to have the mass of people and clutter behind him. His view now unobscured, the consulting detective reconstructed the building of Saint Bartholomew's hospital in his head, pulling a perfect image of the construct from his mind palace.

_‘Back entrance would have been over there. A &E entrance to the right. Ambulance drop-off on left. All burnt to cinders. Clinic to the right of the A&E. John would have been there. Nothing but ash now. Small explosion evident. Anyone near would have been killed immediately.’_

Something pulled Sherlock out of his deductions. A female voice. And upset female voice. A hand on his arm. He blinked twice to bring himself back to reality and turned to find Molly Hopper pulling at his coat.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” She had obviously been trying to get his attention for a few moments because her voice was unnecessarily loud.

“Molly.” He spoke softly, more a statement of observation rather than actually greeting her. In a flash his body twisted, leaning down to her eye level while his long, bony hands gripped her biceps tightly. “Have you seen John?”

His voice sounded strange. Stressed. Not his own.

“No.” Molly said in a whisper, shaking her head slightly before looking around for the missing blond. “No. Is he here?”

Molly’s voice wasn’t right either. It was cracking at the edges and Sherlock recognised the sound of panic.

_‘She didn’t know John was working the hospital today. She hasn’t seen him. She’s of no use to me.’_

He let go of the tiny woman and brushed passed her without a word. 

Molly didn’t follow. She just watched the taller man saunter off, a look of horror and pity evident on her face, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the newest body being pulled from the rubble near where the small explosion had happened.

Everything seemed to go silent for a moment. Sherlock blinked a few times, feeling something in his body tighten. He didn’t understand the reaction until he took in the whole scene before him.

Donovan and Lestrade were helping a paramedic pull limp limbs from beneath the smoke and ash. They were careful even though the dead man wouldn’t care. He was dead. Dead people didn’t care. Dead people were just that: dead.

Sherlock took a few tentative steps forward because, for some reason, his feet didn’t want to move the first time his mind commanded it. Once he got going though, he took off at a brisk pace, clearing meters in seconds.

“Back off, freak. Can’t you see we’re busy? Have some respect.” Donovan barked at him when he arrived, but he paid her no mind. Sherlock wasn’t even aware of her. The only thing he could acknowledge was the burnt and distorted body they were working out of the rubble.

“I said don’t get in our way, Sherlock.” Lestrade warned softly, keeping his eyes on the task at hand.

“You heard ‘em, freak. Scram.” Donavan added, focusing on moving a bit of rubble away with her gloved hands.

“Sherlock?” Now Lestrade was looking up, eyes focussed on the lanky man who’s eyes were fixated on the body. “Oi! Earth to Holmes!”

“Jumper.” Sherlock whispered. Now his voice sounded all wrong and nothing like his usual silky baritone. It was brittle and hushed. Distant.

“What are you on about?” Sally huffed, finally whirling around to glare daggers at the tall man behind her. Once faced with Holmes, the fire in her eyes faded slightly, realising that he wasn’t paying any attention to her. Were his eyes glossy? She could have sworn she could she red on the rims.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” Lestrade paused, standing slightly to fix his full attention on the brunette.

“The jumper.” Sherlock said again, this time his voice a bit stronger, though no less _wrong._

Greg finally took a moment and looked down at the body, trying his best to follow the brilliant man’s train of thought.

“The jumper? What about the...” Lestrade’s voice faded instantly. His eyes flew wide and a hand made it’s way to his mouth, covering it quickly with the back of it. “Jesus Christ...” The words came out muffled against his skin and Donovan turned her head to her boss at the exclamation.

“Sir?” She asked, an eyebrow raised. She clearly had no idea what was happening.

“Jesus, the jumper...” Greg shook his head, his eyes now taking on the same glazed look that she’s seen in Sherlock’s.

“What the hell? What about the bloody jumper!?” Sally exclaimed, clearly frustrated that everyone understood what was going on except for her. She was about to ask again when her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement to her left. 

Sherlock had whirled around and taken off at full stride back to the edge of scene. He didn’t make it very far. His steps began getting shorter and shorter until he had stopped walking altogether. He was still at least fifteen meters away from the police barricade when his head ducked slightly and he gently sat down in the middle of rubble, burnt wood and ash.

“The jumper.” Lestrade said again, breaking Sally’s eyes away from the sight of Sherlock Holmes.

“What is going on, Greg?” She finally asked directly, turning back to look at the body at their feet. Lestrade’s voice was soft when he responded. He wasn’t watching the body or Sally. He eyes were on the crumpled form twenty meters away from him.

“The jumper, Sally. I gave the same jumper to Dr. Watson last Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your input gives me LIIIIIIFE!


	3. Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John says hello to an old "friend." Well, when I say "friend..."

“Wakey, wakey, doctor...”

The voice in John’s head sounded so distant. It was like he was standing in a tunnel and someone was speaking to him from the end of it, not raising their voice for him to hear properly. His head was so hot and achy, throbbing even.

_‘What the hell is going on?’_

“Come on, John. Stop being so _boring_.”

_‘Boring?’_

That wasn’t Sherlock’s voice. No one else called him boring like that except his flatmate. He blinked a few times, forcing his eyes to open and immediately regretted it. Everything was blurred and his focus was about as far from the word ‘focus’ as it could possibly get without him actually being blind.

“There you are.” John heard the voice smile. No, not smile. Grin. Grin was a more appropriate word. “I was starting to get worried. Thought poor Seb might have given you too much.”

_‘Seb? Who the bloody fuck was Seb? Who the fuck are you? Am I... tied to a chair? Damn... I am.’_

John wished he could voice his questions, but his mind was too dazed and his throat far too dry. When he finally raised his eyes, he was able to answer his own question.

_‘Shit.’_

 

0oOo0

 

Something was definitely wrong with Sherlock's motor skills. He’d sat down on the ground, the world spinning around him and his lungs felt like someone was sitting on his chest, preventing proper breathing.

There was that familiar voice again. He’d heard it moments before. Who’s voice was it? He knew it, if only he could process the data.

“Sherlock?” The brunette opened his eyes and found himself staring, once more, at Molly Hooper. She looked different than she had a few moments before. What had changed?

_‘She’s kneeling. Oh yes, that’s because I’m on the ground. Her face is flushed. Make-up smeared. Wet, grey streaks from the running of her mascara. Tears.’_

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice came again, still unbearably soft. There was a look on her face that Sherlock utterly despised. It was the same look Mummy’s friends would give him when he was young.

_‘Pity.’_

“I’m fine, Molly.” He said, but his voice betrayed him. It was broken and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again, this time pulling away from her and standing. “I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

As he stood, he surveyed his surroundings. He was standing in the ashes of the left quarter of St. Bart’s.

_‘St. Bart’s. Fire. Mrs. Hudson... John...’_

His feet nearly left him again, but this time Molly was there, her arm slipped under his coat and smoothly against the small of his back.

“Let’s get you over to one of the ambulances.” She said softly, pushing him forward.

“I don’t need medical attention.” Sherlock tried to snap, but it came out more of a dazed whisper. Perhaps he did need medical attention? Something was most definitely wrong with him. He couldn’t hold himself up properly and his stomach felt ready to turn itself out onto the pavement.

“Okay.” Came Molly’s familiar concession, but she didn’t stop pushing the taller man towards the police barriers.

Sherlock blinked a few more times and he suddenly became aware that he was sitting in the back of an ambulance, a bright orange blanket thrown around his shoulders.

_‘For shock.’_ He vaguely remembered.

Molly Hooper was still there. Her hand was squeezing his shoulder and she was holding something up to his mouth. What was she up to now?

_‘Water. She’s giving me water.’_

“Drink.” She softly commanded and he did, strangely enough. His mind was blown out and it seemed like he honestly couldn’t focus on anything properly.

_‘What is wrong with me?’_

There were other voices now. He recognised one in particular and realised that Anderson was standing a few feet away saying something to the bobby at his right.

“So, I guess they found Doctor Watson, too. Right shame. I actually liked the guy.” Anderson sighed softly. “He ran good interference with the freak. Too bad. Guess the psychopath is going to have to find a new pet.”

_‘Pet.’_

With a shriek from Molly, Sherlock was a blur of motion, shooting up from his seat in the ambulance to grab at Anderson, lifting him by his lapels and whirling him around to pin him harshly against the side of the medical bus.

“You will kindly amend your last statement, Anderson.” The man’s name sizzling through Sherlock’s teeth like a vile curse word. His eyes were wild and his teeth bared. He was holding the crime technician so tight that Sherlock’s knuckles had lost all their colour.

“Christ!” Anderson’s eyes went wide with fear and he gripped the detective’s wrists and hands, trying his best to free himself from the madman’s grasp.

“John is my friend and you should have more respect for the...” Sherlock’s words halted abruptly. His gaze on Anderson shifted to a point beyond him and he could feel all of his focus start to spin away from him again.

_‘More respect for what?’_

Sherlock knew the word he dared not speak. No. That would be confirming what he didn’t want to believe. John couldn’t be... _that._ John was _John._ Strong, capable, soldier _John._ His mind buzzed again and suddenly he realised he was no longer gripping Anderson. Someone had him by his arms, pulling his elbows back to almost touch. He was being restrained.

“Calm down, Sherlock!” Lestrade was behind him, gripping the consulting detective’s arms and pulling him further away from the now extremely brassed-off Anderson who was being held back by the bobby he’d been speaking to earlier. “Please. Calm yourself!”

Sherlock struggled hard against the Detective Inspector, but something about his coordination wasn’t right. All he did was struggle. He couldn’t break free. Greg had finally had enough and spun the lanky brunette around to face him, still keeping his grip on the other man firm.

“Stop it. Stop.” He commanded, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes as he gave the other man a couple of hard shakes. “Stop it right now. I know you’re upset...”

“Upset?” Sherlock cut the D.I. off sharply. “I am NOT UPSET!” Sherlock’s glower was brutal and the picture of sheer incredulity.

“Of course not.” Lestrade conceded softly, but his hold didn’t lessen. “But you are in a state of... something. Why don’t you sit back down with Molly and I’ll come talk to you in a moment?”

Lestrade nodded back towards the medical examiner who waved slightly when Sherlock’s gaze finally traveled back in her direction.

“Fine.” Sherlock yielded, pulling himself away from the greying detective to head back to Molly. “But keep your sniffer-dog away from me or I will not be held responsible for what I do.”

“Understood.” Lestrade nodded, calling Anderson and setting him on a task as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible. He didn’t know what the forensic analyst had said to set the other man off, but Lestrade had enough problems to deal with and separating the children was so much easier than trying to get them to reconcile.

Sherlock reclaimed his spot on the back bumper of the ambulance and allowed Molly to coddle him slightly. She replaced the blanket he’d thrown off himself and gave him more water. She rubbed his shoulders and whispered consoling words that he didn’t really hear.

_‘Have more respect for the...’_

“Dead.” He finally said out loud. It was the first thing he’d said in nearly twenty minutes and Molly startled at the sound of his voice.

“What did you..?” She began to ask, but Sherlock cut her off.

“Dead.” He said, his voice heavy and deep, his eyes open but unfocused. “He’s dead. John is dead.”

 

0oOo0

 

_‘Shit. Shit. SHIT!’_

John’s brows creased together as he focussed on that _grinning_ face before him.

“Oh, you look so surprised! How lovely!” The man before him exclaimed, bent over at the waist to look into the doctor’s eyes.

_‘Jim FUCKING Moriarty. You prick.’_

“Do say something, John. You’re being so... lame.” The Irishman drawled, winking at the doctor. John squinted and tilted his head, an incredulous smirk creeping into the corners of his mouth.

“You’re being so... psychotic.” The doctor choked, but the humour wasn’t lost. His smirk blowing out into an actual smile with teeth.

“Ah, now there is the sturdy soldier I’ve been longing for.” Moriarty laughed, spinning away from John to stand beside the only other man in the room. “Didn’t I tell you, Sebastian? He’s so _adorable_. I want a pet like him.”

_‘Pet.’_

“I’m not a pet.” John gritted out through his teeth, smile falling away to be replaced by a scowl.

“But of course you are.” Moriarty lilted musically.

_‘Why does that bastard have to sing everything?’_

“Sherlock has always had impeccable taste.” John watched as the man sauntered around “Sebastian” and moved to bend at the waist once more, bringing himself back down to eye level with the restrained doctor. “And how delicious it’s going to be to watch him suffer over the loss of his puppy.”

_‘Loss? I’m not dead... yet.’_

“What are you talking about?” John scoffed. “Sherlock will find me and most likely shoot you this time, because I’m telling you now, if he doesn’t... I will.” He stared Moriarty in the eyes as he spoke, wanting the crazy Irishman to know that he wasn’t bluffing one bit. John was going to put a bullet between those big, brown eyes. “Promise.”

 

“Oh? How utterly _BORING!”_ The last word came careening out of Moriarty’s mouth like a rocket, slapping John across the face with surprise. “You think you’re going to get out of this? Oh, no, no... I’m going to make this last. _Savour_ the moment.” He straightened up again as he spoke, leaning his body backwards and tucking his arms behind him. “I made Sherlock Holmes a promise. I told him what would happen if he didn’t stop with his infernal meddling.”

“And what promise was that?” John’s voice was solid now, dripping with sarcasm. He wasn’t concerned with what Moriarty was going to do to him. He was more concerned for Sherlock and what wild and mad games the psychopath had planned.

The Irishman was grinning again. John didn’t like that grin. It was the same toothy smile he had when he revealed himself to Sherlock that dreadful night at the pool.

“Oh, I think you know, doctor.” Moriarty said, tilting his head and pacing around behind John’s back so that he could no longer be seen. It wasn’t until he felt hot breath on the back of his ear did he realise that the psychopath was bent over his shoulder.

“I would burn him.” Moriarty whispered and John clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut, a sudden shiver rushing through his body.

“I would burn the _heart_ out of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give me those delicious comments. I nom nom on them and they make me happy.


	4. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to go home and John is praying that crazy isn't contagious.

He’d been sitting on the back of that ambulance for long enough. There was only so much coddling someone could handle before it had to become annoying. Molly still had a hand on his shoulder when Sherlock looked up at her and with his best kicked puppy face told her he wanted to go home. He knew that she would do everything in her power to make sure Sherlock got whatever he wanted. He was _clearly_ in shock. He still had the blanket.

Standing was more problematic than Sherlock would have liked. Clearly his body had other plans because every time the detective tried to pull himself up, he’d wobble slightly and then sat back down. After pausing for a moment, Sherlock tried again, heaving his long body up off the back of the bus.

_‘There is no need for this. I need to leave here.’_

No matter how much he kept telling himself that there was absolutely no reason for his transport to be failing him, he still couldn’t remain on his feet without help from the small woman at his side. Again, Molly slipped her arm around his lean waist and he let a bit of his weight settle on her.

“Something is wrong with me.” He said quietly, mostly to himself, and Molly let her hand rub gently at the small of his back.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” She whispered, fresh tears brimming her eyes. “He was a good man.”

“Who was?” He asked, his head tilting to the side and his eyes squinting down at her in contemplation.

Molly looked shocked for a moment before shaking her head slightly, almost pityingly. She cast her eyes aside so that she didn’t have to look at that inquisitive glare that Sherlock Holmes did oh so well.

“John.” She said softly. “John was a good man.” Her voice broke slightly and she gripped the back of Sherlock’s shirt to lead him away from the confusion and clatter of the scene around them. “Let’s just get you home, yeah?”

Sherlock canted his head and nodded, agreeing that going back to Baker Street was definitely the right choice.

As they made their way towards the police tape, Greg Lestrade returned. He looked haggard and run down. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered over the worn man.

_‘Dark circles and bags about the eyes. Indicates weariness. Hunched shoulders and bent posture. Strained his back while lifting.’_

“They have the fire out now.” Greg said solemnly, coughing softly and shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke. “And they’re moving the patients and... uh... bodies... to Mile End.” Greg’s eyes flickered up to meet Sherlock’s at the word _bodies,_ but then dropped away. “Look, I know that this is a bit overwhelming and you’re upset–”

“I’m not upset.” Sherlock frowned, his voice now just as strong and clipped as it was when he’d first arrived.

“Right. Okay. You’re not upset, but I need to ask if there’s anything you caught while you were out there.” Lestrade’s eyes flicked back up to the brunette’s face. “Did you see anything that would help us figure out what happened here?”

“Caught anything?” Sherlock pulled a face, scrunching up his nose as if he’d smelled something questionable. “I _caught_ plenty.” Rolling his eyes, he continued, his word flying out of his mouth rapidly. “The device was planted in the main hallway between the clinic and the entrance to the A &E. The bomb place strategically by the supply closet where staff stored oxygen tanks. Upon ignition, the tanks exploded, feeding the fire with enough oxygen to spread through the clinic and even downwards towards the morgue.”

“Luckily, I was getting coffee.” Molly interrupted, smiling slightly.

“Coincidence, Molly. Nothing to be proud of. You’re survival was pure luck, not skill.” Sherlock said coldly, causing Molly to flinch and look away, though she didn’t let go of the taller man. “The fire descended down into the morgue and consumed most of the right quarter of the building. It was a small bomb, using a remote detonation, but the bomber couldn’t have been more than kilometre away. Certainly, they are long gone now, everyone being too concerned with the fire and rescue to care whether or not a killer goes free.”

The last sentence of Sherlock’s statement was definitely an accusation and Lestrade scoffed.

“Now hang on just a minute–” Greg began, but was quickly dismissed as Sherlock broke from Molly’s grip and pushed by them both.

“Now, if that’s enough for you to go on, I’ll be at Baker Street.” He said coldly. Neither Molly nor Greg followed, knowing that, if they did, the conversation would only end in both of them being hurt and rather brassed-off. No one wanted to punch Sherlock in the face today. _Definitely_ not today.

 

0oOo0

 

_...I will burn the heart out of him..._

“Good luck with that.” John managed to retort even though his whole body wanted him to retch at the feeling of Jim Moriarty so close to him.

_‘God, I hope psycho can’t rub off on you.’_

There was a puff of air in his ear as Moriarty chuckled softly, but then the sensation of someone in his personal space was gone and John was able to relax, if only slightly given that he was in the clutches of a crazy killer.

“ _Right._ You’ve been napping.” The consulting criminal drawled as he stepped his way back into John’s line of sight. “You have no idea what’s going on.”

“No. I don’t.” John said flatly. “Why don’t you explain so that we’re all on the same page?”

Moriarty turned to look at John with an expression that could only be described as lightly annoyed. Sherlock gave John that same look a lot.

“Are you always this dull, _John_ , or do you practice?” The psychopath asked, the doctor’s name sounding like a term of endearment. “I’d bet Sherlock has to explain everything to you. Do you talk back to him as well?” Moriarty made a humming noise with his lips and shook his head disapprovingly. “I doubt it. Sherlock Holmes is an effulgent celestial body of genius and you are a less-than-nothing speck that is lucky to bask in his light.”

John’s brow furrowed and he squinted his eyes with confusion. Moriarty’s description of Sherlock flowed off the psychopath’s tongue like a poem of reverence.

_‘Jesus. What is this guy’s malfunction?’_

“If you like him that much, why don’t you just ask him out?” John quipped, finding it far easier than he thought to maintain his composure in such an outlandish and clearly dangerous situation. “Kidnapping a man’s flatmate really isn’t the way to his heart. From what I hear, the best route is through the stomach.”

Before John could follow his snide remark with a chuckle, Moriarty snapped his fingers. The up-until-now-silent Sebastian took two steps forward and his fist clashed with John’s face. The world around the doctor spun violently and he had to blink a few times to refocus.

“UNIMAGINATIVE, JOHN!” Moriarty screamed, snapping again to earn John another punch across the cheek. John’s face felt suddenly warm and the former army medic knew it was because skin was broken.

When John was finally able to regain his wits, Sebastian had retreated and Moriarty was back in his personal space, bent over again and leaning so close that their noses nearly touched.

“What makes _you_ so special?” The killer hissed, tilting his head to the side and roving his eyes over John’s face as if looking for his answer there. “Why choose _you_? What could he possibly need from a washed-up, invalid, imp who can’t even take a bullet without weeping himself to sleep at night?”

_‘Ouch.’_

Those words certainly struck harder than Sebastian’s fists ever could. For the first time during their whole encounter, John’s eyes fell to the floor.

“Oh!” Moriarty laughed and clapped delightedly, watching as the doctor’s eyes dropped away with shame. “So you believe it too?” The psychopath was still bent forward, his face just _too close._ “And you don’t understand it either. _Why would the great Sherlock Holmes keep me?”_ Moriarty hissed, his voice becoming sing-song again. “ _Why would he keep me, a flaccid old dog, by his side when he could be so much more without me?_ ”

“Shut up.” John’s voice was still rough and dry, just the barest of whispers, but his eyes flicked up, glaring at the man before him in warning. “Shut. Up.”

“Poor puppy, lost without his master–”

“SHUT UP!” Now John’s voice was full and he strained forward so that his nose did momentarily brush up against Moriarty’s, his face contorted in rage. He let his eyes skim the maniacal man’s face and his voice dropped back down to a deadly whisper. “Sherlock Holmes is more than you’ll ever be. More brave. More talented. Certainly more clever. You’re nothing compared to him.”

“So _loyal._ ” Moriarty grinned even brighter, his lids drooping slightly, tilting his head to the side and looking over John’s face, his eyes finally landing on his lips and hovering there for what the soldier felt was a bit _too_ long. “How I would _love_ to see just _how_ loyal.”

The thought of _Oh dear God, he’s going to kiss me_ flitted through John’s mind briefly, but his gaze remained strong. He couldn’t let Moriarty see any more weakness. He’d already made the mistake of tipping his hand twice to this man; once at that dreadful pool upon their first meeting when he’d tried to protect Sherlock and again when the soulless monster had called him out, praying on his fears of inadequacy. 

“Untie me and I’ll show you just how _loyal_ I can be.” John smiled and Moriarty laughed softly, rubbing his nose against the soldiers before pulling away sharply.

_‘Now I really hope crazy can’t rub off.’_

“No, no, John. That wouldn’t do. You’re too obvious.” The psycho took a few steps back and gestured to Sebastian again. “You’d just try to kill me and that would be utterly tedious. No, we need to play first.”

Sebastian moved around John again and stood before him, just partially blocking Moriarty from his view.

“We need to make sure that Sherlock realises just how much he has to lose.” As Moriarty spoke, Sebastian took out a mobile phone, unlocking the screen and tipping it to show John just what he had missed while he was unconscious. The doctor’s eyes widened as he took in the photograph and headline of the _Daily Telegraph_.

**DOZENS KILLED IN MASSIVE HOSPITAL FIRE**

John’s heart dropped like a stone. Below the bold print was a picture of St. Bartholomew’s engulfed in flames.

**  
“** Jesus...” He hissed, his mouth gaping open in shock. That’s where John was supposed to be. With that thought, he realised that Sherlock would think that’s where John was. He’d sent the detective a text that morning informing him of his shift and apologising for teasing him so much.

_‘Did he read it? Is he looking for me? Is he still angry?’_

“What have you done? All those people.” John asked, finally pulling his eyes away from the destruction on the screen to look up at Moriarty who was grinning like a maniac.

“Exactly what I promised.” Came the demon’s soft chuckle. John thought hard about what that promise was. His eyes widened when the epiphany came and Moriarty laughed full out. “Oh yes. How it must _burn_.”

_‘Oh.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, but steadily, I'm releasing everything that I've written... I think I might stop at this chapter for a bit. Let you all STEW IN IT! <3


	5. Dogsbody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to spiral while John begins to realise that things are a bit more dire than he originally thought.

“I think you have got the wrong idea about us.” John finally said after a long moment of silence.

“Do I?” Moriarty smiled, obviously humouring the doctor judging by his tone. “What idea do I have that is so _wrong_ , John?”

“Me and Sherlock.” John stated, closing his eyes, breathing through his nose a moment before continuing, returning his gaze to the killer. “We’re not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Together...” John answered quickly. “We’re friends.” Moriarty’s face became serious as John spoke, his head tilted to the side as if hanging on John’s every word. “That’s all. Common mistake, let me tell you, but we’re just friends.”

“Oh no!” The psychopath exclaimed. His face looked horrified, his fingers coming to the front of his mouth to cover the ‘o’ shape it was making. “What have I done?”

_‘Great. Not only is he a nutter, but he thinks he’s a funny nutter.’_

“I’m serious.” John added, rolling his eyes at Moriarty’s feigned surprise.

“So am I.” The killer grinned, dropping his hand to let the facade fall away and leave a grimace in it’s wake. “Just because you say something isn’t there, doesn’t mean it isn’t.” 

John closed his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh, but Moriarty continued before he could respond. 

“For some unimaginable reason, Sherlock has chosen you.” Moriarty was moving again and was suddenly back in John’s face. “YOU!” He screamed, then his voice turned dulcet. “Boring, plain, ordinary you...”

_‘Do you have to scream it in my face?’_

“Jealous much?” John was able to retort with a snigger. This time, there was no snapping of fingers. Moriarty lashed out himself, fist connecting with John’s midsection hard enough to leave the bound man gasping for air.

“You aren’t worthy of him!” Moriarty growled, landing a second punch. 

John heard a loud _‘crack’_ and he knew that was from one of his ribs. He gritted his teeth and groaned softly, not wanting to show any signs that a cracked rib hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Moriarty stood back, his chest heaving. After a few moment’s, he straightened his jacket and tie, smoothing out his suit as if it symbolised his composure.

_‘Can’t iron out crazy, mate.’_

“You’ll see.” The crazy Irishman sighed, his voice returning to it’s calm and casual drawl. “I’ll show you.”

John did not like the sound of that.

 

0oOo0

 

The cab-ride back to Baker St. was over in nanoseconds. This was getting increasingly frustrating to Sherlock. He kept losing track of where he was and how much time had elapsed. One moment he was hissing out his destination while climbing into the cab and the next moment he was shoving notes into the cabby’s hand and stepping out onto the walkway.

_‘Something is still not right. I need more data.’_

Sherlock decided that nicotine was definitely in order. He slid his key in the door of 221 and was immediately bombarded by the small form of his landlady, her words a rush of wet air from her lips.

“Did you find him? Is he alright? What happened? Sherlock? Sherlock? Sherlock!?”

“Enough, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock scolded, gripping the woman tightly by the biceps and keeping her at arm’s length. She looked up at him with teary eyes and a hopeful expression. “I... That is... John...” 

_‘John is dead. He died in that fire.’_

Sherlock swayed slightly and more suddenly than he could accommodate, his knees buckled again, leaving him a heap on the floor.

_‘This honestly needs to stop happening.’_ The detective scoffed to himself. 

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson whispered, bending as far as her old hip would allow.

“He is grieving, Mrs. Hudson.” Came the slick voice of Mycroft Holmes. The spymaster stood at the top of the stairs leading up to 221B, clearly coming down from the flat.

“I am doing no such thing!” Sherlock griped from the floor.

“What? Grieving? Why?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her wide eyes darting between the Holmes brothers with anticipation and fear. “What happened?”

“It seems Doctor Watson was a casualty of the blaze at Saint Bartholomew’s, I’m sorry to say.” Mycroft said expressionlessly, earning a muffled yelp of horror from the older woman. Making his way down the rest of the steps, he directed his attention to the man on the floor. “And you, dear brother, are clearly not taking that fact very well.”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock protested, but made no move to get up to sooth Mrs. Hudson or prove his brother wrong. He remained seated on the floor, unable to get his legs to work properly.

_‘I’m not fine...’_

“Of course.” Mycroft smiled, gracefully bending down to hook his arm beneath Sherlock’s armpits and pull him up, looking at the sobbing woman beside him. “Mrs. Hudson, perhaps some tea?”

The landlady didn’t need to be asked twice. It was so much easier for her to click into caring mode than it was for her to worry about the state of things. She didn’t want to think about it anyways. 

Mycroft was easily able to get his brother up to the second floor and heave him into the leather chair by the fireplace.

“You’re a mess.” Mycroft scowled, shaking his head softly. “Honestly, Sherlock? I told you this would happen.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock frowned, pulling his legs up and curling into a surprisingly small shape given his height. “You didn’t warn me of any fire.”

“Caring, Sherlock.” Mycroft clarified, sitting in the chair opposite his brother.

_ John’s chair. _

He lifted his umbrella to point at the younger Holmes with a knowing frown. “Caring is not an advantage. I told you this months ago and yet here we are, you a wreck of emotion and me picking up the pieces.”

“I am NOT A WRECK!” Sherlock screamed, bursting forward and knocking aside Mycroft’s umbrella so swiftly that it sailed out of the elder man’s hand with a loud clatter. “And I am NOT a ‘ _wreck of emotion!’_ ” The detective sneered. “There are no pieces to pick up and I certainly do not need any more of your ridiculous insights!”

Sherlock stood over his brother, his breath heavy, his eyes sharp and his teeth bared in rage. Neither man said a word. Mycroft barely blinked. They just stared at each other for a full minute.

“Feel better?” Mycroft asked, finally breaking the silence.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

 

0oOo0

 

John was blissfully alone. Thankfully, Moriarty’s phone rescued the doctor from the inquiries of the madman. He and Sebastian had left John tied to the chair and vanished, allowing the former soldier some much needed peace and quiet.

_‘God save the Bee Gees. Now, where the hell am I?’_

John was now able to take in his surroundings properly. The room he was in was very, _very_ large and very, _very_ empty. It was definitely a warehouse. The floors were cement and the walls were metal. High above him were rafters that went on for hundreds of meters. John estimated that the construct could easily fit at least two and a half football pitches. The windows were far too high to see out of, but John could at least tell it was still daytime. He’d left for the hospital early, so perhaps it was only midday.

_‘How did I even get here?’_

He went over his memories of the morning carefully. He remembered his quiet beginnings in the flat, reading the paper and setting off without disturbance. He took the bus to St. Bart’s because it was cheaper than taking a cab. He definitely remembered making it to the hospital, but after that, his memories got a little fuzzy. Did he see any patients? When had the fire broken out? Was he even there for that?

He couldn’t remember.

_‘Okay. I’m tied to a chair, so they had to have knocked me out or something because I certainly don’t remember volunteering for that.’_

His head felt alright now, even though it was definitely pounding when he’d first come to. He didn’t have a headache or anything like that, so he ruled out getting a good clock to the noggin.

_‘Drugged then.’_

John quickly went into doctor mode and checked himself thoroughly. It was only then that he’d noticed how chilly it was. He suddenly realised that he was tied to a chair in nothing by his underthings. White vest, plaid boxers and his socks.

_‘The fuck?!_ _They stripped me! When did they strip me!? Oh my God, I squared off with a sodding psychopath in my pants!’_

Why would they take his clothes? Granted, it certainly made for an uncomfortable situation, but John had come from a place where checking for camel spiders in your sleeping bag was common place. Being tied up in nothing but your underwear was decidedly less scary than a camel spider.

“Getting lonely, _Jawn_?”

“Oh Christ.” John bit out quietly as Moriarty’s voice entered the empty warehouse. Two sets of footsteps were coming from behind and John could only guess that the second set belonged to Sebastian.

“You can call me Jim.” Moriarty chuckled, swinging himself around so that John could see him properly. “I’ve got some wonderful news for you, John.”

“Oh? I can’t wait.” John said drolly, rolling his eyes at his captor.

“Hmm, I’m sure you can’t.” _Jim_ frowned, tilting his head to observe the man in the chair. “Your master isn’t doing so well without his faithful companion.” Moriarty added, shaking his head solemnly. “No. Not doing well at all.”

_‘Can you knock it off with the pet jokes?’_

“Piss off.” Spat John. He hated the dog references. He wasn’t Sherlock’s pet. He was suddenly reminded of the row he and Sherlock had the evening before.

_‘No wonder he got so shirty. I’ll have to make sure I apologise twice as much when I get out of here. No fun being compared to a dog.’_

“I’m sure he’s doing just fine. So how long are you going to keep me here. It’s rather _dull._ ” John made sure he emphasised the last word the same way Sherlock would have. He wanted to irritate Moriarty as best he could.

_‘The arse-hat did tie me to a chair... and leave me in my pants.’_

“John, John, John...” Moriarty tsked. “Is that any way to treat your marvellous host?”

“Marvellous fruit loop, if you ask me...” John muttered earning him a chuckle from said fruit loop.

“Oh, John. You really are so very entertaining.” Moriarty took a few steps forward and entered the doctor’s personal space. It seemed the madman truly enjoyed this. Perhaps he thought it would ruffle John’s feathers a bit. Now the retired soldier was painfully aware that he wasn’t properly dressed. “Tell me, John, how do you think Sherlock is dealing with your death? And believe me, he thinks you’re dead.”

“There is no way he would believe any crap you pulled.” John stated, his voice stern. “He’ll see right through anything.”

“You think so?” Moriarty smiled, taking a few steps behind John to lean over his shoulder, their ears brushing as the psychopath put his arm around the doctor’s opposite shoulder to show him his mobile phone. Even though the image was a low-quality camera phone picture, John recognised the very familiar figure of Sherlock sitting in what could only be described as rubble, another familiar figure of Molly crouched beside him with her hand on his shoulder.

“He collapsed after they found your body.” Moriarty whispered, his lips brushing John’s cheek. “From what my informants tell me, he was devastated. Inconsolable. Didn’t even know where he was half the time.” Moriarty nuzzled his nose at the joint where John’s ear met his throat to whisper, “So sad...”

John tried his best to sharply pull away from the man, nearly toppling himself over. Moriarty gripped at John with his free hand to keep the man upright, chuckling as he righted his captive.

“You really don’t understand?” Moriarty continued to laugh, taking a step back from John after patting him lightly on the arm. “I took away the only toy he truly cherished.”

_‘Now I’m a toy... great... Guess it’s better than pet.’_

“Now he’s all alone and he needs someone to be there for him.” The Irishman paced back in front of John, looking maniacal in his glee. “I wonder how dark and desperate he feels now? I wonder how empty his chest is, knowing that his heart has been ripped from his ribs?”

“You give me too much credit.” John scoffed.

“You saw it.” Moriarty frowned, cocking his head to the side, clearly annoyed that John wasn’t following.

“Saw what?”

“Saw what? Saw WHAT!? You know WHAT!” The man screamed, whipping out his phone and furiously clicking through it before reciting out-loud in that sing-song voice, “I could see the look in Sherlock's eyes - a flash of, not anger, but hurt.” Moriarty paused, giving John a bored look and then returning his eyes to his mobile as he read more of John's blog. “For a second, he looked like a little, lost child.” The Irishman scoffed at that, rolling his eyes and laughing. “Really, John? Such a romantic.” He continued, “I should have been horrified that he'd even doubt me for a second but, to be honest, it was so refreshingly human of him.” This time Moriarty outright _laughed_. “Human? You wish you could bring him down to your level, don’t you, John? Oh, and this is the best bit: He actually did value our friendship. He did, despite himself, _care_.”

Moriarty was in John’s face again, spitting ‘care’ out like it was some vulgar cuss word.

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know what I’m talking about when you write about it in your pathetic little blog.” Moriarty said through clenched teeth. “You don’t think I didn’t see the look on his face when I sent out his puppy to greet him? That look of utter _betrayal_? Oh, how perfect it was. And your delivery was wonderful.”

_‘Back to the dog jokes...’_

“Shut it.” John whispered softly, his eyes falling away, a deep blush spreading from his neck, across his cheeks and up his nose.

_‘You don’t know anything, you deranged wanker.’_

“And you knew he _cared._ ” Moriarty laughed. “Let’s see just how much he _cares_ about you, John.”

There was a rustling noise behind John and Sebastian appeared, bringing with him a video camera set up on a tripod.

“We’re going to give Sherlock a ray of hope.” The psychopath grinned, waving his arms about in a grand gesture. “And then were going to rip it all away, right in front of him. I want him to feel a glimmer of happiness, thinking that he could possibly get his loyal John back and then I’m going to flay you alive and listen to your screams.”

_‘Wonderful.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! Your comments are breathing life into me! I can't believe you really enjoy this old piece of junk. I LOVE YOU ALL!


	6. Verify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally puts his head on straight.

Mrs. Hudson’s tea had long gone cold as the two Holmes brothers stared each other down across the edge of the parlour. The woman had skittered in with tea and biscuits and quickly made herself scarce, the tension in the room just too much for her. Sherlock remained silent, wrapping himself up tight within his long coat and staring into the empty, unlit, fireplace. Mycroft kept still, his hawkish features pinned on his younger brother.

“Well?” Mycroft finally spoke, his voice a loud disruption to the silence of the flat.

“Well what?” Sherlock didn’t turn his gaze away from the fireplace.

“Perhaps you would like to discuss the events of today?” Mycroft suggested, tilting his head slightly. “It has been... eventful.”

_‘Oh. I see. You want me to talk about John.’_

“You mean, do I wish to discuss the death of my flatmate?” Finally, Sherlock faced his brother, eyes sharp. “You want me to tell you how upset I am and how _devastated_ I am? Perhaps you’d like me to say I’m heartbroken?” Sherlock’s words were harsh. “I am fine, dear brother. People die.”

“Yes, Sherlock, people do die.” Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. “But we both know that John Watson wasn’t just _people._ ”

“What are you talking about?”

"Redbeard."

"Oh, come off it!"

“Sherlock. You and Doctor Watson were close. Closer than I’ve ever seen you get with another person.” This earned a scoff from Sherlock, but Mycroft continued nonetheless. “And it would be perfectly normal for you to _grieve_ the loss of such a person.”

“I’m not grieving.”

“Oh? Then why do you keep scratching your arm?” Mycroft asked, nodding his head towards Sherlock’s elbow. The younger brother froze. Sherlock hadn’t noticed he was doing that at all. He looked down at himself and realised that what Mycroft had said was true. Through the thick wool of his coat, Sherlock had been itching at the crook of his arm.

_‘When did I start doing that?’_

“Don’t think I don’t know what that means.” Mycroft warned, earning himself another scoff.

“Please. I’ve been clean for over two years. This doesn’t change anything.” Sherlock glared.

“Yes, two years, Sherlock. The longest you’ve gone. Commendable, but we both know what kept you that way.” Mycroft’s eyebrows raised as he spoke and Sherlock continued to glare.

“The work.” 

‘ _The work is all that matters.’_

“Wrong.” Mycroft’s stated, shaking his head and closing his eyes tight in a moment of frustration. “That is complete nonsense and you know it, Sherlock.”

“Oh? Then tell me, _dear brother_ , what is the correct answer?” Sherlock scowled, now unwrapping himself from his the confines of his coat and leaning forward in his chair. “My work is everything and the deal with Lestrade was–”

“Like you ever held up that end of the bargain? How many time did I have to come to your aid? How many times did Gregory? How many jail cells and rehab clinics?” Mycroft stood and glared, opening his right palm in askance. “How many times did Lestrade say it was your last chance? Five years you’ve been assisting them and three of them you were high as a bloody kite!”

Sherlock stood as well, coming up nose to nose with his brother.

“And you think John is the reason for my sobriety? Is that it?” Sherlock scowled. “Well, he’s dead now. Do you believe that I will return to the drugs, then? I don’t need them. I don’t need _him._ ”

“Sherlock...”

“No. No. I don’t.” Sherlock spun around and paced towards the centre of the room. “I don’t need anyone. I don’t need John. I don’t need his help. I don’t need his tea or his ridiculous habit of trying to feed me toast...”

“Sherlock.”

“I don’t need him to clean up the flat. I don’t need him to remind me to sleep. I don’t... I don’t...” Sherlock paused, looking off into space for a moment before turning back to look at his brother, wide-eyed and clearly confused and unfocused. 

“I... don’t... He was going to bring home Angelo’s tonight.”

“Was he?” Mycroft sounded slightly different, his voice no longer sharp, but curious.

“Yes. It’s our favourite. Plus it’s usually free. I’m familiar with the owner.” Sherlock blinked, his eyes squinting slightly.

“Are you?” Mycroft asked, obviously not interested in the restaurant. He was more concerned with the display his brother had just put on.

“Yes. Got him off a murder charge, but that’s beside the point.” Sherlock looked away again. “What was my point?”

_‘Where was I going with this?’_

“You don’t need John.” Mycroft offered.  


_‘Right!’_

“Right! No. I don’t.” Sherlock confirmed, nodding his head. “He was truly an idiot anyways. Certainly dressed the part, what with all of his ugly... jumpers...” Again, his voice faded away and Mycroft steeled himself for another tantrum. Instead, Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he inhaled a sharp breath.

_‘Jumpers.’_

“Sherlock?” Mycroft knew that look. Something had just occurred to Sherlock that hadn’t before.

“I need to leave.” Sherlock stated suddenly, whirring around to head for the door.

“Leave? Where are you going?” Mycroft moved to intercept, pulling at his brother’s arm.

“Mile End Hospital. I need to see something. Confirm something.” Sherlock moved to free himself, but Mycroft held tight.

“Perhaps you should shower and shave first. You look a mess.” Mycroft suggested, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t have time. I need to see John’s body.” This earned Sherlock another pull to his arm.

  
“The dead aren’t going anywhere, Sherlock.”

 

0oOo0

 

It was an hour before Sherlock climbed out of the sleek black car forced upon him by his brother. He’d showered, shaved and dressed in his usual suit coat and trousers, donning his long wool coat to emphasis his height. He was, once again, his imposing self as he strode into the lobby of Mile End Hospital.

_‘You would think that a hospital would be more coordinated for mass casualty.’_

This place was even more chaotic than Saint Bart’s on a regular day, now that it’s doctor’s had a double workload. Victims of the Bartholomew Fire, as the newscasts were calling it, were everywhere, along with more police officers and doctors. Nobody noticed the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes make his way toward the lifts, slipping in to head down to the hospital's morgue. Nobody, except Greg Lestrade, who caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s trademark coat before it vanished through the lift’s doors.

“No you don’t.” Greg said as he quickly scrambled over and reached an arm out to stop the doors from closing. “Where do you think you’re going? I thought you went home?”

“I did. And then I came here.” Sherlock said, his nose scrunching slightly in disdain that Lestrade would point out the obvious.

“And why,” Greg began, slipping into the elevator with Sherlock before allowing the doors to close. “Why are you here?”

“I need to verify something.” Sherlock frowned, looking away from Lestrade and focusing on the buttons of the lift.

“Verify?” Greg parroted, earning and eye-roll from Sherlock.

_‘I really disdain repeating myself.’_

“Yes, verify. Honestly, Lestrade, it’s like you don’t speak English.”

“Alright.” Greg huffed, staring at the beige doors in front of him. “What are we verifying, then?”

“For the love of...” Sherlock groaned, turning to glare at the inspector. “The body, Lestrade. We only identified John’s body from his clothing.”

“And?”

“And that is very flimsy evidence to be basing a body’s identification on, don’t you think?” Sherlock said, turning back to face the buttons, pressing the bottom one labeled ‘M’ again. “I need to look closer.”

“To be sure?” Greg asked, tentatively. Sherlock didn’t answer.

The doors opened and both men stepped out, Lestrade following Sherlock’s long strides down the corridor. A harried young man greeted them as the stepped into the office area.

“Can I help you two gentleman?” Sherlock’s eyes traveled the man from head to toe in seconds.

_‘Married. Father. Two children according to the photo on his desk. Pictures on the wall drawn by the youngest. Sentimental.’_

Before Lestrade could say anything, Sherlock was blinking a few times and his eyes glossed over.

“I was sent down here to identify...” He sniffed, a tear rolling down his cheek. “To identify my flatmate. He was a doctor at St. Bart’s.”

Greg kept his mouth shut, quietly fascinated by what was happening. He’d seen Sherlock do this before, but it never got less amazing. Lestrade inwardly chuckled at the idea that Holmes had missed out on a lucrative career in acting.

“Right this way, sir. I understand that this is difficult.” The mortician frowned before turning to lead them deeper into the morgue. The second the man had his back turned, Sherlock’s ‘weeping friend’ facade dropped away, leaving only a cold and calculated glare that Lestrade felt was slightly more terrifying than normal because of the tears still on his cheeks.

They entered the large storage room with cold chests shining at them. Clearly, the death toll had been much higher than Mile End was prepared for, because a number of gurneys were lined up next to each other.

“I apologise for the crowd.” The mortician frowned. “We’ve been having a tough time keeping up.”

_‘Obviously.’_

“What did you say your friend’s name was?”

_‘I didn’t.’_

“John. John Watson.” Sherlock provided, his featured seamlessly melting into a look of pain and grief the moment the mortician turned to face him. Greg had to hold back a chuckle.

“Watson... Watson... Ah... right over here, sir.” The mortician beckoned, moving beside one of the gurneys that had been organised to fit in a small space. “Now, this might be a bit of a shock. According to this report, he was burnt up pretty bad. Take your time, okay?”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock nodded, the anticipation almost breaking through his mask. Once the mortician thought it okay, he lifted the sheet.

The body on the gurney was exactly the same as it was at Bart’s. The face, neck and most of the right side of the torso were badly charred, bones peaking out in places around the jaw. The jumper that was used as identification had all but melted into the burnt flesh. It created a very odd pattern of familiar colours that Sherlock found slightly uncomfortable for a moment.

“It’s alright. I know that this is hard. Take your time.” The mortician soothed, but Sherlock didn’t need soothing.

“I need to look closer.” Sherlock stated coldly.

“At what?” Lestrade finally spoke, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder with a tight grimace.

“His left shoulder.” And to the absolute horror and bewilderment of the mortician, Sherlock leaned in and gently pulled the seared fabric away from flesh. 

“Sir, you can’t–”

“Do you want me to identify the body or not?” Sherlock spat, raising his eyes to glare threateningly at the mortician.

“I... well...”

“Of course you do.” Sherlock sneered before focussing back on the body. “Lestrade, look.”

“What am I looking at?” Greg choked, a handkerchief already covering his mouth.

“His shoulder, Lestrade, his shoulder. Look at it.” Sherlock’s tone indicated frustration as he pointed to the burnt and scarred up shoulder of the corpse laid out before them.

“Yes. It’s his war wound, Sherlock. He was shot in Afghanistan, remember?” Greg immediately regretted the words by the time they’d left his mouth.

“Of course I remember. Honestly, it’s no wonder Scotland Yard can do anything on their own when even their best detectives can’t see the obvious.” Sherlock turned to look at Greg a moment before looking up at the mortician. “You. What do you see?”

The man looked startled and definitely uncomfortable, but he nodded and looked down.

“An old bullet wound. At least two years or more, judging by the scarring.” The man looked up and Sherlock smiled and nodded.

“Go on.”

“Uh... it’s... um...” He reached out with gloved hands and tilted the body slightly. “It’s a through and through, no significant clavicle or arterial damage.”

“And the gun?”

“Gun?” The man looked up at Sherlock, confused. “What gun?”

“What type of gun would make a wound like this?”

“Oh... yeah...” The mortician returned his gaze to the body and shrugged. “I can’t tell you the model, but I can tell you that it was a small caliber. Maybe a nine millimetre. Perhaps smaller. Why?”

“Ha! Why?” Sherlock stood up, elated. “Lestrade, now can you tell me what is so obvious?”

“The bullet wound. John was shot by a rifle, an AK if if his pub stories are true.” Lestrade gaped down at the body. “Holy shit.”

“And this means?” The mortician asked, now thoroughly bewildered.

“It means, sir, that this,” Sherlock pointed down at the body in triumph. “Is NOT Doctor John H. Watson.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one is up! I should probably hold off on posting more so that I have time to start writing the ending. Y'all will probably want an ending. I hear those are required and shit....


	7. The Lies We Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's up to Sherlock to keep up appearances.

“I don’t understand.” Greg said as they entered the lift. Once he’d properly taken in the whole of the dead body before them, Sherlock was able to give the mortician full details on the impostor. Construction worker, former military, and once the autopsy was done it would be proven that the detective’s observation that the man had been murdered by strangulation. “Why go through all this trouble to fake John’s death?”

“Precisely!” Sherlock grinned, sauntering off the lift and down the hallway towards the exit. He quickly pulled out his phone and started tapping away at it quickly. “Why take the time to dress a man similar in build to John, similar history, similar wounds... why?”

“Are you going to tell me or are you asking for my opinion?” Lestrade asked as he pulled at Sherlock’s elbow so the man would face him.

“For me. Obviously.”

“For you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

_‘Why do I constantly have to explain everything?’_

“This was clearly a message to me. Old hat as well.” Sherlock shifted, turning once more towards the double doors that led out to the street. “Someone felt it necessary to make me think that my best friend had died in a fire. Some who wants to see me suffer. Sound familiar?”

Greg ignored the comment about John being Sherlock’s ‘best friend’ because the idea that Sherlock held anyone in such a high regard was simply dumbfounding, and moved to the second part of the statement.

“You don’t think–”

“Five pips.” Sherlock stated cooly. “Jim Moriarty is back.”

“You’re sure?” Lestrade didn’t like the idea of that mad bomber still on the loose, but every now and then, Sherlock would go on what John had described as a ‘Moriarty Tangent.’ He would try to see the psychopath in every nook and cranny of a case before being disappointed in it’s simplicity. It was slightly disturbing to see how Sherlock would light up over the idea that his rival had returned.

“Of course I’m sure. Nobody would be so clever as to use a body with a similar war wound as John’s. Plus, I’m betting he knew I would figure it out at some point.” Sherlock was already outside and Greg hadn’t realised he’d followed until he was watching the slender man prop open the door to a cab. “We need to see how long we can make him believe I’ve taken the bait.”

Now that Sherlock was facing him, Lestrade could see the tears and pained expression on the detective’s features. Had he been crying the whole time? Had he looked like that while they stood outside?

“You think he’s watching you?” Greg whispered, adding his own pitying expression the the act. If they were being watched, he could at least make it look like he was consoling a colleague.

“Oh, yes. I’m definitely being watched. As are you.” Sherlock nodded. “We must keep this information to ourselves as long as possible. Moriarty will want to keep playing the game. He wants to savour the moment of my defeat.”

“Where are you going, then?” Greg nodded to the car.

“Baker St. I’m sure I’ll be hearing from Jim soon enough. Keep your mobile on. When he slips, we’ll find John.” Sherlock added sternly, slipping into the back seat of the cab and vanishing, leaving Greg to try his best to contain his confusion and relief.

At least John was alive...

... As far as they knew.

 

0oOo0

 

Sherlock remained as grim as he could for the whole trip back to Baker St. He exited the cab and walked towards the flat slowly, taking his time with each and every step. To the world around him, he appeared like a man walking in a haze, burdened by some awful weight. In actuality, he was as sharp as ever. Each passing glance at the strangers that walked the streets around his home were calculating and deductive.

_‘One of you is working for him. At least one of you is here to watch me.’_

He entered the flat and was immediately aware of the sounds coming from 221A. Mrs. Hudson’s soft voice could be heard from down the hall, her door as open as 221B’s had almost always been.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock called out, making his way down the hall and poking his head in through her door. She sat at her kitchen table, tea in front of her and tissues in her hands. Her shoulders shook softly and there was a very specific smell that Sherlock quickly identified as his landlady’s ‘herbal soothers.’

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock said again as he entered the flat and cautiously stepped towards the weeping woman.

“He was so young.” Came the woman’s broken voice. “And you were so lonely before.”

Sherlock froze for a moment. This was a common mistake that Mrs. Hudson and a few others made on a constant basis. Everyone around them seemed to think that he and John had a deeper relationship, a more intimate one. The idea always made Sherlock not only chuckle, but cringe slightly because every time someone would suggest it, John would shoot it down with a derisive comment about his sexuality or the distance that actually existed between him and his flatmate. Honestly, who cared what people thought? John obviously did, but why?

Except John wasn’t here to defend himself now.

“Mrs. Hudson, you know we aren’t like that.” Sherlock chided softly, but there was no venom in his voice. He suddenly realised that he’d used the present tense, knowing full well that John was not dead. He stepped closer and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. 

“Weren’t like that...” He corrected, knowing that it was common for people to have problems adjusting to past tense after the death of a person they were close to.

“Oh, shush.” Mrs. Hudson tutted, turning to look up at Sherlock. He still had tear stains on his own face from the role he’d played in the morgue and on his way back home. “You two... you two were... Just let an old woman have her happy memories.”

“More like fantasies.”

“Sherlock!” The brunette pulled away slightly as Mrs. Hudson stood up with a frown on her face. “If you think for one second that I’m going to believe you didn’t care for him, you are clearly underestimating me.” Sherlock blinked a few time and took in a breath to speak, but Mrs. Hudson continued. “I’ve seen the way you two are together. Peas in a bloody pod. The rows and the laughter. I know. I saw it every time you two looked at each other. Don’t give me that ‘we aren’t like that’ rubbish.”

She was crying again and Sherlock let out the breath he was holding and frowned softly.

“Alright.” He conceded, canting his head slightly. “You’re right. We are close and I do care about him.”

“Was that so hard to say?” Came Mycroft’s voice from the doorway. “I got your text.” He added before Sherlock to gripe about his brother’s presence and the propriety of eavesdropping. “It seems you were right. I’ve brought some CCTV footage that you’ll want to see.”

“CCTV... Sherlock! You’re not working a case already?” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, looking between the two men in horror.

“Of course I am, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock grinned down at his landlady. “So you’ll have to excuse me, but I have business to attend to. Have some more of your herbal soother and get some rest.”

“But–”

“No buts, Mrs. Hudson. Rest.” The detective leaned in and kissed the woman on her cheek leaving her dumbfounded before spinning and leading his brother towards the stairs to 221B.

“You didn’t tell her?” Mycroft asked quietly as they made their way up to the flat.

“No. It would be best that everyone believes it for now.” Sherlock replied, his voice just as hushed. “For all intents and purposes, John Watson is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's it going so far? Gimmie your delicious love and comments. They feed my even Moriarty's soul!


	8. Et Rondo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes's put their heads together and Sherlock reminisces about the past.

The two Holmes brothers stood bent over the table in the sitting room viewing the footage that Mycroft had acquired, on John’s laptop as usual. The CCTV tapes were from outside Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. The angles were a bit funny, but Sherlock and Mycroft could most certainly make out the form of John Watson stepping off the bus and entering the building.

“Alright, so he definitely made it to the hospital.” Sherlock confirmed out loud and then proceeded to fast-forward the tape. He got to the point where smoke could be seen and stopped, pausing the video.

“Moriarty had to have removed John from the building before the fire, so our time frame is 8:02AM to 9:17AM.” Mycroft said, easily following Sherlock’s train of thought. They never mentioned it, but when they worked together instead of against each other, the Holmes brothers were a well-oiled, efficient machine.

Sherlock rewound the footage and started it again from where John had been seen entering the building. It took a few run-throughs, but on the third round, Sherlock paused the video again.

“There! Look!” Sherlock exclaimed and Mycroft leaned closer to see what Sherlock was pointing at. On the screen, two men dressed in paramedic attire were loading what looked like a dead body into the back of an ambulance. The body could not be identified because said person was contained in a body bag.

“They’re transporting a body, Sherlock. There’s nothing usual about that.” Mycroft said, knowing it would prompt Sherlock to give a reason for his interest.

“Paramedics, dear brother. Paramedics.” Sherlock pointed out as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Mycroft only rolled his eyes and stood up straight.

“Go on.” He prompted.

“Why would paramedics be removing a body from a hospital?” Sherlock asked, turning to look up at his brother, not bothering to stand up or remove his fingers from the track pad of the computer. “Sure, the body could be going to another facility or be being transported to a funeral home, but paramedics move living people. Injured and sick, yes. Dead? No. The morgue does that. The morticians have special arrangements for the shipment of corpses.”

“You’re saying that they aren’t really paramedics and that the person in that body bag is not dead.” Mycroft clarified. “And could possibly be Doctor Watson.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it’s a start.” The elder Holmes frowned and pulled out his mobile phone, quickly tapping away. “I will have more surveillance looked at to see if we can track the location of that medical bus.” Mycroft replaced his phone in his pocket and turned his full attention back to his brother. “And you, will remain here until you receive contact from our dubious kidnapper.”

Sherlock made a move to protest, but Mycroft cut him off quickly.

“Uh, uh, uh, dear brother. You’re in mourning. You must remain here.” Sherlock groaned and moved away from the laptop to sit in his chair. “Tedious, I know, but you must keep up appearances. Play your violin. Something dark and sorrowful. Let them know you are truly heartbroken over the loss of your doctor.”

“You are enjoying this too much.” Sherlock hissed, standing up to pull the Stradivarius from it’s case and pluck at it’s strings softly.

“Well, you do _care_ for him.” Mycroft smiled, venom evident in the use of the word ‘care.’

“And your point?” Sherlock didn’t even try to defend the statement he’d made to Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft knew when he was lying and could see that Sherlock was telling the old woman the truth.

“I have made my point, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage.” The words rung out just as cold as they did in the morgue of St. Bart’s all those months ago.

“Perhaps you are right.” Sherlock frowned, plopping back down into his chair to rosin his bow. “So why help me if you think I am at a disadvantage?”

“Because you and I both know that _you_ caring about someone is infinitely more dangerous than a _normal_ person.” Mycroft glowered with a knowing look.

“How so?” Sherlock raised and eyebrow and placed his bow down on his knees, easily ignoring the snide use of the word ‘normal.’

“Because in the end, you will do anything to protect that which is yours.”

 

0oOo0

 

Hours.

It had been hours since Mycroft had left Sherlock to his own devices. Hours for the detective to stew in his own thoughts and brood into boredom. He played, just as his brother had suggested, sorrowful music until the sun had set and Baker Street was blanketed in darkness. He picked a piece he knew well enough to play without paying much attention, but would be recognised as something he played often. It was strange to be pulling this certain tune out of his violin without John’s presence.

_Introduction et Rondo capriccioso_ by Camille Saint-Saëns.

 

0oOo0

 

Ten months ago, John had come blearily down the stairs into the main room of the flat. It had been early. Far too early for John to have chosen to be awake. He’d grumbled something to Sherlock about tea and proceeded to the kitchen, bringing a cup for the detective as well. One look at the doctor as he placed the cuppa on the table beside him and Sherlock was able to deduce what had happened.

Nightmares.

Sherlock paused and watched John take a seat on the couch and sip his tea slowly, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Not to mention those ratty old slippers he insisted on keeping.

“They haven’t stopped.” Sherlock stated rather than asked. He knew it to be true, so why inquire?

“No.” Was John’s simple answer as he lifted the mug back to his lips and leaned more fully into the cushions.

They sat there in long silence, sipping their tea and quietly ignoring each other before Sherlock decided to play his violin. He picked up the instrument and tuned it with quick efficiency before tucking it beneath his chin. He went to pull the bow across the strings when John’s voice interrupted him.

“Do you take requests?” The question had a slight humour to it, but only minimal. John was clearly tired and worn, but he’d managed to pull a slight smirk.

“Do you have one?” Sherlock asked, slightly bemused. What would John know about classical music? He usually listened to that abhorrent rock and roll station when he cleaned the flat.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but it's kind of sad.” John smirked. “I know that doesn’t narrow it down, but you play it a lot. Usually at night. It starts out really soft and sad but then gets fast and... um... peppy?” This statement ended in a slight chuckle and Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk slightly.

“Hmm. Your description is a bit lacklustre, but I’m sure I can figure it out.” He started to play, trying Bach’s _Concerto in D_ first and John began to shake his head.

“Nope. Not that one.”

“Alright.” Sherlock stopped and flipped through his his mind palace for another song he’d played recently. This time he tried some Mozart.

“Nope. That’s not it either.” John frowned. “Honestly, I should know the name. You play it all the bloody time.”

“Well, you’re going to have to be more specific then, John, or just live with whatever I choose.” Sherlock scolded, beginning to get frustrated by his flatmate’s ignorance.

“It sounds... hmm...” John leaned forward and placed his mug on the coffee table before leaning back again and closing his eyes. “It sounds, at least in the beginning, a bit like that one you wrote during the whole Irene thing.”

“The whole Irene thing?” Sherlock frowned. They hadn’t mentioned Irene Adler for weeks and now John wanted to hear the song he’d wrote while trying to figure that _Woman_ out? Then it dawned on him.

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock paused a moment, tuning his strings again before slowly pulling the bow across them.

“Yes.” John smiled, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “That one.” His voice almost sounded relieved as if he’d had a headache and had finally felt the paracetamol kick in. 

“Camille Saint-Saëns.” Sherlock offered at a pause.

“Bless you.” John chuckled softly and eased back into the cushions of the couch.

“That’s the composer’s name. Saint-Saëns.” Sherlock smiled genially, the name sounding like “seh-sauce” which made John think of pasta. “And the piece is called _Introduction et Rondo capriccioso._ Or, for your own reference, _et Rondo_ , just so I know what you’re trying to convey.”

“M’kay.” John smiled softly, but when Sherlock turned to scowl at John’s dismissal, he found his flatmate laying back with his head resting on the back of the couch and his eyes closed. “Think it’s m’favourite.”

He was falling asleep. John never went back to sleep after his nightmares, not that Sherlock ever noticed. He’d come down, he’d make far too many cups of tea and he’d wait until it was what he considered an appropriate hour to get up to shower and go about his day.

Sherlock was so intrigued that he didn’t realise he’d stopped playing. Eventually, John opened one bleary eye and looked up to find sharper eyes glaring at him.

“What?” John woke a bit more and opened his other eye as well.

“You were falling asleep.” Sherlock stated. His words were empty of any emotion, just casual as if pointing out that John was wearing slippers or that he had made tea.

“Yeah, um... sorry. I...” And, in moments, John’s cheeks pinked. “I should probably go back to bed. Thanks.”

Before Sherlock could ask what just happened, John got up and made his way back to his room with out another word. Sherlock was sure that he’d done something that disappointed John or made him uncomfortable, he was always doing those sorts of things. He just didn’t understand why people got so touchy about irrelevance. What had he done this time? But John was gone and he would have to wait to ask.

He began _et Rondo_ again, since it was unfinished and he had a habit of not being able to just stop in the middle of a composition.

It was a few days later when John had been woken by his nightmares again that Sherlock finally figured out why John had left in such a hurry.

“I like that one.” John said as he requested Sherlock play for him. “It... helps.”

_‘So, that’s why he had gotten upset. He was embarrassed.’_

Sherlock had learned by now not to point out the embarrassment because it only made John angry. Instead, he played. It became just another part of their strange routine as friends, added to the laundry list of oddities that occurred at 221B including checking labels three times on containers and shifting body parts to make room for actual food in the refrigerator.

John would wake in a cold sweat, come downstairs to make a cuppa and sit on the couch while Sherlock played the violin for him. It became so routine that eventually John wouldn’t stay. He would take his cup and go back to his room, falling back asleep to the sounds of _Introduction et Rondo capriccioso_ coming from the parlour.

 

0oOo0

 

Sherlock was quickly broken from his reverie by a sharp knock on the frame of the door.

“Sorry, dear.” Mrs. Hudson offered a small smile. “I know you’d rather be left alone, but this came for you. Bit strange getting a delivery so late.” She held in her hand a small, manilla package, neatly labeled.

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

_221B Baker Street_

_London, NW1 6XE_

_England_

 

The writing on the envelope was calligraphic with loops and swirls. The back of the envelope was more telling. An old wax stamp had been used to seal it. Sherlock ran his fingers over the embossed image.

“A magpie.” He frowned before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his mobile, sending off texts with practiced ease. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m going to ask you to leave for your own safety. Perhaps you could visit your sister?”

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” She asked, watching the way the detective caressed the wax.

“Nothing to concern yourself with. One night should be enough.” He said flatly, his mobile buzzing against his fingertips. He shooed the woman out against her protests and shut the door, lifting the device to his ear.

“I need you to come to Baker Street. I believe we have our first clue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene between John and Sherlock is actually a nod to [The Green Blade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/320879) by [Verity Burns,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/pseuds/verityburns) ie; One of my all time favourite Sherlock Fanfics EVAR and I believe it's so good that it should be published and homie should get monies for it... yeah...
> 
> Comments give me life! Next up: What's in the envelope?


	9. Use Your Imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally find out what sort of clue Dear Jim sent Sherlock.

Sherlock sat in his chair eyeing the envelope for a long while. There was a knock on front door and he quickly leapt from his perch to receive his caller. Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway looking slightly irritated.

“You’ve got something?” He asked as Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see the black Mercedes pulling up to the curb. Greg turned to watch as Mycroft Holmes stepped out, umbrella in hand as always.

“Detective-Inspector.” The elder Holmes greeted as Sherlock stepped aside to allow both men in quickly.

“There’s no need for pretences now. He’s made contact so whatever it is, he’ll know I’m faking it from here on in.” Sherlock said as he led the two men up the stairs. “I’ve guessed it to be a DVD of some sort, but I haven’t opened it yet. I thought that the two of you should be present in case anything happens.”

“Wise of you, brother.” Mycroft commented as they stepped into the parlour of 221B.

“So, what do you think is on the DVD?” Greg asked, looking around for the offending object. Sherlock moved quickly to retrieve it from it’s place on the table next to his chair.

“Hopefully, everything we will need to find John.” Sherlock grinned almost maniacally as he stepped away from his brother and Lestrade to carefully unseal the envelope. As he’d predicted, there was nothing inside except a jewel case that contained a burned DVD. “Shall we have a look, then?”

He moved over to John’s laptop which had remained on the breakfast table in the parlour. Casually opening it up and typing in the password to unlock it, he opened the video player and slid the DVD in.

All three men huddled around the laptop, Sherlock taking a seat in the chair while Mycroft and Lestrade stood over either shoulder.

The first thing to come up made Lestrade grip Sherlock’s shoulder tight and Sherlock’s heart jump into his throat. He beat that down quickly as he took in the image. 

John was gagged and tied to a chair in a large dark room, barely enough light to make out when or where the film was taken. He was wearing only his vest, pants and socks and he certainly did not look happy. There was a small cut leaking blood on his cheek and he was leaning slightly to one side that indicated an injury to his torso. Sherlock could see no blood on his white vest apart from the drips from his cheek to his collar, but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes no blood was a bad sign.

“Greetings Sherlock Holmes!” Came the chipper voice of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock tensed slightly but remained calm and focussed. “Welcome to the show!”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock hissed, nodding towards the screen.

“You’re sure?” Greg asked, looking down at the brunette.

“Positive. He’s modified his accent, but it’s him.”

A man in a mask stepped out in front of the camera and took a few steps back towards John.

“I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, but maybe you haven’t. I’ve heard some absolutely glorious things about you lately, Sherlock.” Jim’s smile could be heard in his voice. The strange man took a few more steps until he was standing beside John. “I hope you don’t mind the voice over, but I can’t go giving away all my secrets, now can I?”

There was a soft chuckle from the man beneath the mask who put his hand on John’s right shoulder.

“I kept telling Doctor Watson that he needs to play nice, but of course, you haven’t trained your puppy very well, _Sher-lock_.” Jim’s voice lilted as it gave Sherlock’s name a more melodic sound. “Puppy just kept biting so he had to be muzzled.”

John’s eyes blazed fire at the man who was clearly standing behind the camera.

_‘Good on you, John. Don’t let him see you scared.’_ Sherlock thought to himself.

“Now, I told you what would happen if you kept meddling, Sherlock, didn’t I?” Jim asked, knowing that Sherlock would be unable to respond.

“He really does not like you two, huh?” Greg said softly, trying his best to unleash the tension that was clearly coiling itself under his skin. He considered John a friend and to see this did some seriously messed up things in his chest.

“I told you I would burn you and now, here we are. How did it feel when you thought your pet had gone up in flames? Were you scared? Lonely?” Jim chuckled. “Oh, I heard that you collapsed at the scene of the fire and were sobbing as you left Mile End. Pitiful!” The last word was spat out as Jim’s voice changed from it’s sing-song lilt to something coarse and cold. “I thought you were better than that. Better than all the rest of them, but no. You’re just like them. Boring.”

The man with the mask who had been standing steadfast next to John moved now, pulling out what looked like a thick icepick from behind his back.

“So now, I get to play with you the same way I play with all of those other _ordinary_ people.” The man with icepick moved again, this time stepping to John’s left. “I wonder if there are any bits of the bullet left in your shoulder, _Doctor._ ”

Now the man in the mask stood in front of John, off to the side enough so that everything could still be seen. He took one knee and held himself there as if waiting.

Lestrade drew in a breath and Sherlock gritted his jaw. Mycroft made no motion at all aside from his eyes slitting in contained anger.

“I suppose we’ll just have to go looking, won’t we?” With those words, the man in front of John raised the icepick and pressed it up to John’s war-injured shoulder. Slowly, ever so slowly, the masked man started to add pressure. He didn’t quickly stab the pointed object forward so much as _slid_ it.

John’s eyes quickly closed and he started to breath heavily through his nose. Inch by horrifying inch, the icepick glided forward, burrowing through the hardened old scar tissue. John did well for the first few moments, breathing hard and deep while trying his best to push away the searing hot pain that shot through him, but eventually, as the icepick dug deeper, John began to scream.

The gag in his mouth muffled the worst of it, but even the dampened sounds caused Sherlock to grip the table until his knuckles had turned white.

“Find anything yet?” Moriarty laughed from off screen.

Tears were now tracking there way down John’s face and blood drenched the left side of his white vest, staining it red.

“It took some time, but we were able to find a pick that was roughly the size of thirty-nine millimetre. Had to be accurate, of course.”

John continued to scream, his face turned away and his neck and torso straining to get away from the excruciating torture. Eventually, John’s screams became whimpers and a slight ‘pop’ could be heard as the icepick finally made its way completely through his shoulder. The masked man stood and left the pick imbedded in his victim. John struggled half-heartedly as his whimpers became soft sobs. He opened his eyes and looked directly at the camera, nodding slightly before the sobs ceased and John completely passed out.

“Wasn’t that wonderful?” Moriarty’s voice asked cheerfully before becoming somber again. “You’ve meddled, Sherlock and now I’m going to put your dog down. This is only the beginning. The next time you see him, you won’t second guess your deduction of whose corpse you’re looking at.”

The screen went blank and silence pervaded the flat.

“Jesus FUCKING CHRIST!” Lestrade exclaimed, cutting through all of the silence like a brick through a window. “The fuck!?”

“Calm yourself, detective.” Mycroft spoke calmly as the Inspector pushed away from their huddle and strode into the middle of the parlour.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me to calm down, you icy prick!” Lestrade bellowed. “That arsehole just... he just... I can’t fucking believe this!”

“He’ll be alright.”

The words didn’t come from Mycroft, but from Sherlock. Greg turn to glare at the brunette’s back as Sherlock reset and played the video again, this time muted.

“He’ll be alright!? Are you fucking mad?!” Lestrade asked before scoffing at himself. “Of course you’re mad! That bastard just shoved a fucking ICEPICK into your best friend and you’re watching it again!?”

“I need more data.” Sherlock said cooly, eyes remaining focussed on the screen.

“More data!? You fucking heartless bastard!”

“THIS IS ALL I HAVE!” Sherlock bellowed, standing fast enough to knock over the chair he was seated in as spun to glare down at the Inspector. “This is all I have and if I don’t find John soon, Moriarty will killed him! That I am sure of!” Greg _glowered_ at the younger Holmes while Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. “Now, if you wish to save John, you will calm down and focus. There has to be something on this tape that will help us find him. So, if you cannot bare to watch it again, please, find something else to do with your time because, right now, this is all we have to go on. Unless the ambulance turned up anything?”

The last question was clearly directed at Mycroft who scowled.

“Ambulance, what ambulance?” Greg asked after taking a few deep, calming breaths.

“It seems that Doctor Watson was removed from Saint Bartholomew’s before the blaze was set by means of a body bag and ambulance.” Mycroft clarified before addressing his brother. “And no, the ambulance was a dead end. It was dumped in an alleyway lacking proper surveillance, cleaned with some very harsh chemicals.”

“So all we have is this DVD.” Sherlock added, looking Greg in the eye before picking up the envelope and jewel case. “Moriarty is clever enough not to leave fingerprints, so we’ll just have to work with what we have.”

“So, let’s go down to Scotland Yard with it, then.” Greg suggested. “We have bigger screens there, maybe we can see something.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “Moriarty will be watching and if I head down to NSY now, he’ll surely kill John and be done with it. He wants me to play the game.”

“My office, then.” Mycroft said, finally speaking. “It may be watched, but there is no way that Moriarty can watch all of our facilities. If we go now, we can have the DVD analysed, copied and sent out within the hour.”

“Really?” Lestrade scoffed, eyeing Mycroft incredulously. 

“Really.”

“Then it’s decided.” Sherlock nodded, pulling the charging plug away from the laptop and shutting it before tucking it beneath his coat. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

 

0oOo0

 

God, it hurt.

It hurt so _fucking_ bad!

The moment John saw Sebastian kneel down with that icepick, he knew what was going to happen, but he didn’t realise how badly it was going to _hurt_.

They’d left the pick in his shoulder for God knew how long. He only woke because of the tugging agony of the damn thing being pulled out.

_‘No. Don’t remove it. I’ll bleed out if you remove it.’_

But John was still gagged and he was only semi-conscious. He couldn’t explain that the original wound had almost killed him the first time. If they left him there, he wouldn’t survive the next few hours.

“Oh, come now, John.” Moriarty’s voice came from somewhere on his right. “Just think of this as a change of pace for your nightmares.” The psychopath chuckled and suddenly John was aware of a hand running from his right shoulder and down his chest, hot breath and soft lips caressing his ear. “If you live long enough to have any more nightmares, that is.”

And then John was left alone. He was left alone and the sobs came almost as soon as he’d heard the door slam shut.

_‘Please, God. Let me live...’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, but not really. 
> 
> Poor John.
> 
> Unfortunately, this is the end of the quick updates. I have yet to write the ending. I know it'll be one more chapter, but getting to the end has been far more difficult than I thought. It's not the fall that gets ya, it's the stop...


End file.
